In sickness and in health
by MariaLujan
Summary: Patrick also has TB and he and Sister Bernadette will go to the same sanatorium.
1. Chapter 1

It was terrible. The worst of his nightmares. She had tb and it was so terrible that even he forgot that he had it too.

He felt a little selfish: he should feel desperate to leave a child who had already lost his mother. And yet, he felt desperate for her, seeing the X-ray with her name. She was not guilty of anything.

And yet, blessed is the girl who did not want to enter the van. It was because of that little girl that Sister Bernadette took that X-ray. And blessed is the machine, which stopped working for a few minutes and he offered to try it, putting his own chest.

Dr. McGuinness patted his shoulder.

"I'll fix everything so that the studies are done tomorrow. I can drive you to the hospital."

"No, I will. Just...fix the rest."

"There is a good sanatorium, it's called St Anne. Surely they take place for both."

"For both?"

"Of course, there is a wing of women and another of men."

He was going to say no, get the best for her and that he would settle for another site, but his colleague was already telephoning, very busy.

Taking both x-rays, he went looking for his car. There was an exam to do.

/

In Nonnatus, Sister Julienne was surprised when he asked to speak with Bernadette in private. She said nothing, only accompanied him to a room and went out in search of her sister.

Meanwhile, he thought about how he would give this news to her. He swallowed hard as he could. This was his fault, there was no doubt. A punishment from heaven for daring to so much.

/

She laughed, it had been a good day. Trixie was telling some funny things that happened while Sister Evangelina was asking for something for her battered throat.

"Oh, Sister Julienne!" She smiled when she saw her superior approaching. "Would you like a cup of Horlicks? I think we deserve it."

Her sister denied slowly.

"It's Dr. Turner and he wants to talk to you, in private."

She felt her stomach tighten and immediately an excuse came out of her mouth.

"I can't…"

"It seems like it's something important."

She nodded, set down her cup, and walked to where she was directed. In the few steps she took, she felt her nervousness grow. Would he want to talk about what happened in the kitchen? However, when she entered, her smile betrayed her. It always did it when she saw him. She said something about the day they had but she saw that things were not as bright as she thought.

When he saw her enter, with a charming smile, he felt his heart sink even more. She immediately seemed to notice.

He showed her the x-ray, she saw her name there, he told her the amount of lesions. He asked if there was a cough, she only mentioned difficulty breathing, sometimes. Something that happened to him very often when he was close to her. She seemed not to fall for what was happening, until he told the truth, he had the same disease.

Bernadette raised her eyes, filled them with anguish. Her mouth was open and she was going to say something but he interrupted her, announcing that he should examine her.

"But you…"

"Don't worry about me."

She did not seem satisfied, so when she saw Sister Julienne, the first thing she said was that the Doctor was sick. She said it sadly, or so it seemed. Afterwards, she just said that she also had the disease.

She is self-sacrificing even for that, he thought.

The older nun looked at him surprised and full of concern.

"I fixed everything so that a good locum comes."

"That's not what worries me. Doctor, this is serious..."

"I must examine Sister Bernadette." He interrupted.

The nun nodded, helped her sister undress and he had to iron himself to concentrate only on what he should hear, and not see. She avoided his gaze, she felt uncomfortable and nervous.

"Crackles. On both sides."

"And you?" She looked up. She could no longer try to be indifferent. She felt uncomfortable but this was not just for her. He was in the same condition, and she needed to know.

"Something like that." It was all he said "They fixed everything, tomorrow we must do more complex exams at the London. I´ll drive you."

She tried to refuse, but he insisted. There was no risk of any contagion, both were equal.

/

Sister Julienne insisted on accompanying her, but she wanted to be alone. Very soon, however, her superior had to leave, there was a mother about to be and a father about to die.

Immediately the tears began to roll. Was this a punishment from God? God was love, and what she felt was also love, how could God punish him in this way? And punish a little child, newly orphaned mother?

She settled into the bed even though she knew she would not sleep. She was dispensable, but Poplar would not have his best doctor. And the world would lose the best of its men, the man she loved the most.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, they were both waiting in a hospital corridor. None said anything, only looked at the tips of their feet.

"What will happen with Timothy?" She asked, without looking up.

"I was going to ask in Nonnatus if it is very inconvenient to have him there until the holidays, so he can go to school. Then he will go with his grandmother."

"We'll be..." She sighed, shaking her head. "They'll be happy to have him."

He gave a sad giggle.

"Would you like to be there with him too, would not you?"

"I can't lie, Tim is a charming little one. And so smart!"

_And I could be his mother_, she thought. But she bit her tongue before the words dared to come out.

A nurse said their names and immediately separated them, each one into a different room. When they met again, a couple of hours of exams and questions had passed. Both had their results in envelopes. Sister Bernadette was going to propose to see them together, like opening a fortune cookie, but the doctor opened his envelope, read quickly and put everything away again. She did not dare to ask, but fleetingly she saw that it was not so serious TB, but that it progressed quickly and insistently. She opened her own envelope and found that her was a little lighter. She immediately raised a prayer, asking him to recover as soon as possible, even at her expense.

She followed him, he was walking almost dragging his feet towards the hospital exit.

"Doctor..." He turned to see her. Poor girl, she had the living mark of anguish in her face. She must be terribly scared.

"Yes?"

"What should we do now?"

_Get married._ He laughed at his stupidity and she looked at him bewildered. Clearing his throat and looking back to the exit, he said:

"I'll drive you to Nonnatus to take whatever you need for the sanitarium, you must go as soon as possible. I…will go home."

"But you will not go to any sanatorium?"

He decided to ignore the question. If he said yes, that he would go to the same as her, she would simply run away. He still did not explain how she accepted being so close to him after what he had done.

Bernadette shrugged when he did not answer, just followed him to the car. He opened her door, and she sat next to him. Together they had been in many difficult situations, some that they could solve triumphantly and others in which everything got out of hand and they could do nothing, just try to accept it. However, she had never seen him so defeated. The man beside her did not look like Dr. Turner and he clung to the steering wheel and lowered his head in an attempt to contain tears. She extended her hand a little to rest it on his back, but closed it and put it back in its place.

"I must tell Tim." She heard him say. "How do I tell this to him?"

"Do you want me to do that? I can ... explain to him a little. Maybe he gets angry with you and thinks it's your fault to take care of the patients. Children have a great imagination and he can think of anything."

"The first thing he will do is get angry. No, no. "He shook his head, still low. Then he raised it and ran his hands over his face.

"No, I must tell him. I was the one who told him that his mother would die, and he claimed that I did nothing to cure her. This I must also say, and endure his complaints. God, he is only a child, how can he assimilate everything? Why does your God allow this?"

He said it without anger, with a terrible resignation. She would have preferred that he beat the car with his fists until he destroyed it, before this question without hope. Once she told him that she wanted that faith make a difference, and now she believed it too. Having faith was not serving her at all.

At last she dared to reach out and put her hand on his shoulder, immediately he seemed to relax.

"I'm sorry, I should not have said that. And I should not burden you with these things, you are in the same situation."

"I'm not. I don't have anyone who depends on me."

"That's what you believe."

Before she could process his response, the car was already on its way to Nonnatus. She clenched her lips to say nothing more and to keep them from shaking, but tears stung to come out. The doctor's question was true, why did God allow this?

/

"Tim?"

The boy ignored him completely, too busy to recreate a battle of airplanes. He called again, this time the boy looked at him but continued with his game. Exasperated, he took the toy from the boy's hand.

"Why you do that?!" He screamed indignantly. "I'm playing with this, give it to me!"

"I need to talk with you."

"Not now."

"Tim, enough. It is something serious."

The boy threw another of his planes to the ground and dropped into a chair, arms crossed. Patrick wondered when his son was so upset about being close to his father. Probably since he spent more time in the company of anyone, or on the street, than with him.

"There is one thing I must tell you. " The boy pretended to fall asleep. "Tim, stop, pay attention."

He settled himself better in the chair, but he still did not look at his father.

"You're going to...spend some time in Nonnatus."

"I'm there almost every afternoon."

"I know, but this will be a little more permanent. You are going to live there. It'll be until school ends, you know, just a couple of weeks and then you'll go with Granny Parker."

"Are you going to leave me for good?"

The words hurt him more than the diagnosis he had just received at the hospital. He swallowed.

"I never leave you, son. It's just ...I'm sick."

The boy raised his eyes.

"Like mom?"

"No, no so much."

"But you're going to die."

"Of course not." He tried a smile, but only left a grimace that Tim did not believe.

"Yes, you're going to die like her. " He tapped one of the table's legs. "Why do you spend the day outside curing everyone and you could not cure Mom and now neither can you? You are a fiasco!"

He stood up, but Patrick did too and took him by the elbow.

"Tim, listen to me." He knelt down and saw his son's angry tears. "I understand you're furious, but it will only be for a while. You know, doctors treat sick people and sometimes they get contagious. I will go to a place called sanatorium, I will be there until it heals me."

"And can I visit you?"

"No I don´t think so." He sighed. "They're not going to let kids come in. "But you can write to me. Look, I'll write the address and you can write as many times as you want. You will not remember me, you know that in Nonnatus nobody gets bored, there is always fun."

"I never get bored with Sister Bernadette."

And there was the last thing. Again he tried to smile, but his son was very observant, sometimes for his own evil.

"What's wrong with her?" He asked, distrustful.

"She will not be there. She is also sick."

"You could not cure her either? Not herself? Medicine stinks!"

"Don´t say that. Thanks to the Medicine, we will both be cured and we will be here soon, you will not notice that we left. Also, soon Chummy and Sgt. Noakes will come, and they will live in Nonnatus as well. You will not be the only man in the house."

Tim seemed unconvinced, but nodded.

"Can I visit Sister Bernadette?"

Patrick stood up, looked at the ceiling for answers. His son loved that woman, and that made things twice as painful.

"No, son. She will be in the same place as me."

"Great, so she will not feel alone." Tim began to gather his airplanes, as if nothing had happened.

"You care more about her than about me, do not you?"

"Sure, she's better."

He laughed for the first time in those two days. Tim played again, occasionally asking when he should move, if he would be forced to spend time with Trixie and his boyfriends stories, or if Sister Evangelina would punish him for everything. Once, Sister Bernadette had told him that children were resilient. Of course, she had not been wrong. His son was the living image of that.

/

She carefully closed her suitcase and sat on the bed. She looked at the wooden cross on the wall, but no prayer or request came out of her mouth. Her mind was too blurry and she could not put it in order.

She heard taps on the door and the kind face of Sister Julienne appeared.

"Do you have everything?"

"Yes. I don't have so many things to carry."

Sister Julienne smiled and sat next to her.

"Fred insisted on taking you, but Dr. Turner refused. If you write to us, I would like you to tell me how he is doing."

"Of course I will write, but how can I know how he is?"

"I thought so, you will be in the same place..."

"We will be in the same sanatorium?"

"It is the only hospital with free places. You will not be surrounded by men, stay calm." She smiled at her, but Sister Bernadette could not calm down. Not only were they sick but they would spend months together in the same place. She looked at the wooden cross and it seemed that even the Christ mocked her.

"I didn't know it." She said at last.

"Everything will be fine, do you want us to pray together?" Sister Julienne took her hands, but she gently withdrew them.

"I don't know, I can't even say a word"

"I understand. I'll leave you alone, when Dr. Turner is here I'll call you."

/

It was a short farewell, short enough for no one to shed a tear. She did not want it, she did not want pity or compassion from anyone.

She sat next to him, felt he was looking at her, but kept her eyes straight ahead. She wanted to slap him for not telling her they would go to the same sanatorium.

The trip through the countryside reassured her. It had been a long time since she saw other things that were dirty buildings with clothes drying everywhere, and garbage in the streets mixed with children running.

She spent an hour of absolute silence and saw a very well-kept park, and in the background an elegant building. It did not look like a hospital.

Soon they got out of the car and he handed her the suitcase. She felt a slight touch of his fingers.

"The triple treatment can be miraculous."

Of course she knew it. She had seen it many times operate in almost extreme cases, but like any treatment, it also failed.

He only said it for saying something and she knew it. She felt a little proud to know him quite well. A small smile escaped her when she looked at him and confirmed her theory.

"Thank you Doctor. You've been …more than kind."

And that was it. She would also have liked to say something more, but she could not, and she did not dare.

/

They walked quickly towards the entrance. She was ahead, he could see that she had squared shoulders and faced this with integrity. What had happened when he said that stupidity about triple treatment? He did not know, but he wanted to say something more than that obviousness she already knew because she was one of the best nurses in all of England.

And yet, she gave him that strange little smile and he knew that she had realized everything. He was too fool to hide it.

Bernadette was received by a nurse full of smiles, he, on the other hand, by a doctor who had not seen for a long time and with whom he did not have the best of relationships. She had to go to the west wing, and he, to the east. Before they were separated, who knows for how long, he looked back and saw only one last flash of the blue habit and the door closing behind her.

The doctor accompanied him to his room, explaining things he already knew. He tried not to roll his eyes, a habit that Tim had to express boredom.

He stayed in a small but cozy room. He opened his suitcase and began to store the clothes in the closet. Carefully he put a drawing of Tim on the wall and on the bedside table he arranged some books and a picture of his son.

Then he lay down on the bed, with his arms behind his head looking at the ceiling, and began to think about her. Would her room also be like that? Today it was cloudy, but on better days and according to his calculations, the sun would give the whole afternoon in the west part of the building. That would do her good, helping her improve soon. Sighing, he thought of his colleague and apathetic doctor. Would she also be cared for by that specimen, or would she always have the kind nurse who received her? At this time, would she also be arranging her clothes in the closet? Did she have more clothes than her habit? Would she have books, pictures, drawings? Would she also be in bed, thinking about him, or would she be praying? He ran his hands over his face and grabbed a pillow from the bed to toss it across the room. Of course she would be praying. There was no place in her mind for him.


	3. Chapter 3

Her cap was lying somewhere in the room. She wanted to look for it, but Nurse Peters ran a hand through her hair, pulling it together so it would not get dirty.

"Sweety, do you feel better?"

She shook her head and felt as if her brain was also moving inside her skull. Sometimes in her life she had been sick, but never in this magnitude. She wanted to cry and the tears started before she found the strength to stop them.

"Oh no, don't cry, in a few days you'll be better. It is the body's reaction to treatment, the medications are very aggressive."

She wanted to tell the nurse that she did not need to lie. No one could know when she would recover, or even if she would ever do so.

Helping the nun to get into bed, the nurse covered her with as much blanket as she found, but Bernadette felt that she was dying of cold.

"You feel that way because everything you've eaten has gone down the toilet. I'll bring you a light tea, it will help you to warm up and it will calm your rebellious stomach."

The nurse left, and she closed her eyes in an attempt to pray and calm her pains. She felt a terrible battle inside her body, she could tell that the disease was clinging to her, tearing her apart in its fight against medication.

And she had only been in treatment for two days.

She extended her hand, or so she tried, to reach her Bible. The minimal effort exhausted her in such a way that she wanted to cry again. It was only two days, but she had hardly been able to eat, sleep, or pray. At night the pain seemed to ease with the painkillers, but the nightmares tormented her. They were nightmares where she was an ill little girl again without her mother, or where her beloved sisters suffered something catastrophic, or worse, where he died.

Remembering that he could die made a knot in her stomach, and squeezed her eyelids. Then she opened them, looking for the nurse. She should ask her how he was, if he was better than her with this treatment. She begged God for him and was surprised because for the first time in those two days, she had been able to pray.

"But I could only pray for him." She told herself. What would she do with him? What would she do with this she was feeling, stronger than all her physical pains together? What would she do with that terrible uneasiness of not knowing which way to go?

"Here is your tea." She heard the nurse's sweet voice, which helped her to sit down. "Do you want your cap?"

She nodded several times, unable to find a voice in her dry throat. She looked at the teacup, which promised to take away the feeling of sand.

The nurse came over with the cap.

"Are you really going to hide your hair with this? It's a shame, it's so beautiful!"

The nurse did not put the cap on her as she should, but at least she did not feel unprotected. It was strange, she wanted to walk around the world with her hair free, and at the same time, she was ashamed that anyone saw her.

When she could swallow two tablespoons of tea, she finally looked up to ask.

"How is Dr. Turner?"

"I don't know, I don't work in the men's area, but I can find out. I suppose he will be like you. Oh no, I didn't mean that, sorry."

But the tears had started again. The nurse wrapped her in a blanket.

"You finish your tea, and I'll go straight to find news and I'll bring it to you. But now be a good girl and take all this cup."

This looked like a hotel. He could ask for breakfast in bed, or go for a walk in the beautiful park, or do nothing but look out the window. However, it stank of hospital smell. He should be used to that smell, but he still felt it in everything, in the bed, in the food, in the curtains...The air was impregnated with illness and this time he was not a spectator but a protagonist.

He looked at the medicines he was supposed to take this morning. They were many, and the pills of the night before had given him a terrible nightmare attack that he could control with the effort he had learned over the years. Just by remembering it, his hands started to sweat and he tried to concentrate on something else, like Tim's drawing or what his son would be doing at that moment in school.

But the smell, the damn smell, seemed stronger and stronger, and it no longer reminded him of the hospitals he visited as a doctor, but another. He swallowed the pills in one swipe and opened the window. The park also reminded him of another park. Northfield had been a good place, he did not complain. But he would have preferred never to go through the circumstances that led him there.

He took a deep breath, released it slowly. Something inside him seemed to crack. Before he felt it many times but he thought it would only be tired, now he knew it was the disease. He shook his head, he should not get carried away by these thoughts, he could not fall into that again.

He looked at the park, hoping to see her. In the two days, he had looked a lot, he thought that she would like gardens like this so he hoped to find her, but he never saw her. He wondered if she was feeling bad about the treatment, but discarded the idea. He felt just a little tired, and while she seemed frail, in reality she was strong, maybe stronger than him. In fact he had never seen her sick, only once with a mild cold. He smiled when he remembered that time. She had a red nose and looked cute. Now he knew that maybe it was not just that, that maybe he had begun to love her on the day of her cold.

"No, it was not that day." He said smiling.

It was incredible, but thinking about her could distress him or fill him with peace in equal parts. In that moment, peace invaded him when he remembered one night with a long delivery and the two of them. The baby did not have much enthusiasm to see the world and little by little it was dawning. In a quiet moment, while the mother was gathering strength and he was taking her pressure, Sister Bernadette took her Bible out of her bag and sat on the side of the room next to the fireplace. She opened the Bible on her lap and began to move the lips, praying, although the words were not audible. That dawn, he knew that she was beautiful. The light of the fire illuminated her face focused on praising her god, the fine fingers flipped the pages of the book gently, and for a moment, Patrick thought he was facing an angel and that heaven existed.

He smiled at the memory. Yes, it was that day, the day he noticed her and could not think of anything else.

Suddenly, all peace was erased and he complained of pain. He began to feel bad, to sweat and to lack air.

"Good news! The doctor is very well."

She wanted to hide a sigh of relief, without success.

"Thank you, nurse." She smiled.

"You know, some feel better than others. Correspondence has arrived, do you want me to read it to you?"

She shook her head, extending her hand and sitting up on the bed. A pain like lightning pierced through her.

"You are not well yet, you must rest." The nurse wrapped her again in blankets. "What do you want me to read first? Here is one that says Julienne, another Beatrix Franklin, and another of...Timothy Turner? Is he family of the doctor?"

"Yes, his son, I want that first of all." She said with too much vehemence. The nurse raised an eyebrow, looking at her.

"I think you're full of mysteries, don't you?. Especially in regards to that doctor. Last night you slept and called for a doctor, I got scared thinking you felt bad, but then you said his last name."

The nurse fell silent to see that there was no blush or embarrassed smile on the face of the nun, but a cold and hard look.

"Sorry, I think I should not have said all that."

"No."

The nurse cleared her throat, nervous.

"I'll read Timothy's. Oh look, it's a drawing!" She showed her a sheet of paper full of colors that formed butterflies. "And here behind he says that he misses you very much and that Poplar is a sad place without you. A child poet, huh? I wonder where he got it from."

The nurse's mischievous look managed to undermine her hardness, so she smiled.

"Timothy is a child charm, and he has suffered a lot. Can you...put his drawing here on my bedside table? I want to see it always."

The woman placed the drawing resting on a vase. Then she went on to read the letters of Trixie and Sister Julienne. They were more or less the same, things she was missing, desires for recovery, two of her patients who had given birth.

At night, the pains disappeared magically, so the dinner was her success to achieve eating and retain a little broth. Nurse Peters even praised the color of her cheeks and before sleeping she could say a small prayer before falling exhausted. Just moments before, she had hoped for a good, restful night of sleep, but she was asking too many miracles for a couple of hours.

She dreamed herself in Poplar, in one of its busiest streets, but alone, rejected by all, isolated completely. She had made a decision but could not figure out which, and that decision made everyone hate her. She cried on the ground, it rained on her, and when she awoke, sweating and looking for air, she could still feel the terrible anguish in her chest, the anguish of being alone, completely alone in the world.

"At last you woke up."

She gave a little cry and the light appeared. Nurse Peters handed her glasses, standing next to the bed.

"I was trying to wake you up but it seems you were very happy in your dream."

"Nothing further from that." Her voice hurt her dry mouth. The nurse handed her a glass of water that she devoured.

"Sister, I came because we have a problem in the men's area."

She was used to emergencies so despite her weakness, her nurse side came to the surface. She sat down and dressed in her robe."

"It's about the doctor who came with you."

"What happens to him?" She said desperately, she still had the knot of anguish in her chest from her nightmare and she was not sure if she was still dreaming or not.

"It seems that something happens to him, they can't calm him down, and as you know him I thought..."

She did not wait to know more, she was already walking through the corridors, the nurse said something to her, but she paid no attention to anything, not even to the nausea that threatened to rise in her mouth. Another nurse joined them, guiding them through the dimly lit corridors of the men's area. At last they arrived, and what she saw broke her heart in two.

Dr. Turner was in his bed and in his room, curled up and crying disconsolately and complaining of pain.

"He started this morning." The nurse explained. "I know it's the treatment but now he started saying things about the war or something like that, he doesn't stop raving."

Yes, she supposed he was in the war. All the men she knew had been there, and several times she witnessed similar attacks, but this was more serious. He looked like a wounded animal, desperate. Looking at him, she saw herself in the nightmare she had just had, with that cry born of the most extreme loneliness.

She walked over to the bed, leaned over, and took his hand. It was sweaty and icy, but pressed to her with a deadly grip.

"It's me." She whispered. But it did not work. He released her hand, turned and continued saying incomprehensible words. He was drenched in sweat and even blood came out of his nose.

"Dr. Turner, it's me, Sister Bernadette. You need to calm down." She extended her hand to brush his hair back from his forehead, repeating that she was doing it because he was her patient, and not something else.

"I think if you call him by his name it will be better." Said the nurse.

"I don't know what his name is, I work with him but I don't know it."

"It's Patrick."

Patrick. It suited him, and it was a beautiful name. It meant nobility, what he had in quantity. And he was called as Saint Patrick. According to the legend she heard as a child, he had a woman, who was called...She shook her head, pushing the silly thought away. She should take care of her patient.

She leaned closer so she could speak into his ear.

"Patrick." She whispered. "You must calm down, we are not in war now. You are in the sanatorium and you are going to recover soon."

But nothing happened. She heard that the nurses were going to call the doctor in charge, that if he had a war neurosis, he should not be there. She stopped listening to try again, and this time she knelt on the floor, and touched his forehead burning with fever.

"Patrick."

She felt a change in him, the sobs stopped, and he opened his eyes. He turned to look at her and she could not help but smile with relief.

"You are blonde."

She did not expect him to say something like that. He reached out his hand and touched something: strands of her hair had escaped from her cap. She instinctively pulled away, and tucked them under the cap with fingers trembling with nerves. She took a breath to look back into his eyes and met a look of disappointment that she could not face. She turned to the nurses.

"It's not necessary to call the doctor, it's okay. I'll take care of him."

"Are you sure?" Nurse Peters was confused. "I'll be outside waiting, honey. Remember that you are not very well either."

"I agree. I'll leave but before I'll calm him down."

The women left, closing the door and she looked at him again. He seemed calmer.

"What happened?"

"Doctor, you had a kind of attack. Were you in the war?"

"Oh, yes." He answered without caring.

"Well, I'm glad you're better, doctor." She tried to smile, although what she had just seen still hurt.

"Wait, don't go." He took her hand tightly. "I need to tell you something."

"Doctor, not now, I must rest." She did not know if the doctor, Patrick, was better or continued with his delirium. What she did know was that she should leave him as soon as possible.

"It's about Timothy." Suddenly all her attention was with him. "Sister, he loves you. We all do it. And you're young, and you're going to recover and you're going to get out of here. I still don't know if I will achieve it."

"Doctor, what are you saying?"

"I'm not young like you, I'm older, and it costs more. Please, if something happens to me, take care of Tim. I don't want you to adopt him, of course, but at least guide him. Now he is just a naughty boy but when he grows up...see that he has no bad friends, and that he studies and is honest. Nothing else. Can you promise me that?"

"I don't know why you say all this, you can take care of him because you will recover and..."

"Can you promise me that?"

She smiled. His eyes were still filled with anguish, but there was a glimmer of hope. She leaned closer to him and whispered to him.

"I promise. Now sleep."

But he did not let go of her hand. She tried, but he was already asleep, exhausted by what had just happened. His grip was not strong, but his hand, once freezing, was now warm and she could not let go. So she continued there, on her knees, as if praying to him, and switched off the light with her other hand. He became uneasy, said something between dreams and she feared that everything would start again, so she caressed his forehead.

"He will cover you with his pinions,

and under his wings you will find refuge;

his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.

You will not fear the terror of the night,

nor the arrow that flies by day."

She missed singing the psalms a lot, she did not have anyone to do it with, but she sang to him, watching him relax and go into a deep sleep, until she too fell asleep, taken from his hand.

She woke up with a start. Her eyes were almost next to his, her head resting on the mattress. His hand still held hers, but the rest of her body was frozen, on the floor, without any shelter. A cough came to her to inform her that this had been one of her worst ideas. This cooling could only bring bad health consequences. However, that was not what worried her. She had been here, alone with him, who knows how long. The excuse that he was her patient was weak and ridiculous.

She sat up straight away, her legs cramping. She covered him with a blanket and left.

Nurse Peters was sitting in the hallway, half asleep against the wall.

"There you are, honey. You didn't take long."

She shrugged, had no idea about the hour, and whether she had been there for a long time or not.

When she entered her bed, which was also frozen, and the nurse turned off the light and wished her good night, she knew that she could not sleep. This time there would be neither pains nor nightmares. Not even what she had just witnessed. She could not sleep because for the first time, she had awakened next to a man, next to him.

She wanted to smile, but bewilderment seized her mind. What was she going to do with everything she was feeling for him?


	4. Chapter 4

When he woke up, he did not really understand where he was. Because of the pains he was feeling, the only thing he could deduce was that he had been hit by a locomotive.

"Doctor?"

He saw that he was not alone. Two nurses looked at him in dismay, and at the back, next to the window and with folded arms, was Dr. Sanders. Finally, after so much trying to remember, Patrick had his last name in mind. That useless guy was called Sanders and he looked at him like he was a kid who behaved badly at school.

"You must take the medicines." Said one of the nurses. He swallowed them, then sat down trying not to complain too much, but it was not possible, his bones hurt as if they were crushed.

He had a very vague memory of the previous night: he had felt bad, but nothing that he could not handle, and he hoped that a little rest would help him. But then, the nightmares began, more and more intense. He had not gone through these night terrors for years, and everything went out of control. In his memories she was also there, he could still hear her singing, but he was not sure if she had really been there or not.

"Sister Bernadette…?" He started to ask, but Sanders stepped forward, walking towards him.

"She did us a big favor last night. The girls could not control you."

Sanders grabbed a chair and sat next to his bed.

So it was not a dream. She was there. He swallowed, a too thick knot was forming. She had seen him like that. The shame began to rise, he needed to ask for an apology and at the same time, he needed to disappear. He always tried to make sure no one noticed his problem, he always succeeded and when he could not anymore, she was just there. Once again his past was mocked in the face, getting into his present and ruining it again.

"Turner, we need to talk."

There the interrogation began. He knew that Sanders was enjoying this. He tried to remember why they hated each other. He also did not know if hatred was the term, but the truth was that they did not tolerate each other. He also did not remember if it was something specific or simply a matter of mutual rejection without justification from medical school.

Of course, he denied everything. He could play with Sanders because he always did, and he smiled to himself with arrogance, he knew more than his old partner. So he could entangle him with words about the collateral effect of the treatment, and the stress caused by his work. In the end, he assured that everything was a thing of the past, that the war had little and nothing to do with his life and that he remembered it as an almost happy period for the friends he had made at that time.

His colleague stared at him thoughtfully and evaluated him. Then he stood up.

"Very well, I believe you. You know that if this is repeated, I will know that you lied to me and you will have to leave. Here, we cure tuberculous, not lunatics."

As soon as Sanders left, he cursed him. Then, motivated by his success cheating the doctor, he got out of bed. His body ached, his muscles were numb, but even with looking out the window, it would be enough to feel better.

When he opened the curtains, he saw the image of who was relieving and tormenting him. She was sitting in the sun, smiling and with something in front of her. Was it a painting? Could it be that besides all her virtues, she also painted? Could it be that she did not have a defect that made her more reachable, more human and earthly, and not so distant and celestial?

"Nurse!" He called. When one of them entered, he smiled. "I want to go to the park, is that possible?"

"Mmmm..." The nurse looked at her records, then looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Well, yes, but not more than an hour and just to take a little air."

When the nurse left, he did the most extreme physical exercise in those three days he was in the sanitarium: run to the closet and get dressed as fast as he could.

The excitement of seeing the paintings was something she could not hide. Nurse Peters joined her in discovering that she had made the right choice.

"I knew you would like to paint! Don't you care that these watercolors are from a patient who died?"

Bernadette looked at her, distrustful.

"All was sterilized, I swear. The patient simply didn't succeed, he was very old...If you don't want to use them, I'll throw them away and buy others."

"No, I can't allow them to be thrown away." She said, almost frightened by the extravagance of throwing away a box full of watercolors and beautiful paintbrushes.

The nurse left, promising a blanket to keep her warm, and she smiled, happy. At last they had given her permission to go out to the park and the feeling of the grass under her slippers, and the air and the sun on her face, had a renovating effect that filled her with hopes.

When she sat down, contemplating the large garden, she did not imagine that Nurse Peters would arrive with an easel and a box of watercolors, arguing that she possessed the sensibility of a painter, and other flattery that she tried not to hear so as not to blush.

"Here you have." The nurse came back with the blanket and placed it in her lap. "You have an hour to paint your wonders, then you'll go back to bed, you have to take care of yourself."

A small bird sang on a branch above her head. It had been so long since she heard a sound like that, she was always surrounded by the sound of cars, and the screams of women or street vendors.

Then she looked at the sky, the day was very beautiful, there were some clouds but the sun was shining. Sighing with joy, she opened the paint box and selected a brush. First she would paint a little of that almost perfect sky, then she would see if she could with the little bird and even a humble copy of the building that was now her house.

"Hello."

She was startled to hear him. She could recognize his voice anywhere and in the midst of millions of different voices.

Then she turned her head slowly. He was standing in front of her, covering the brightness of the sun. He wore a red and green plaid robe, hands in pockets and hair made a mess. The brush she was holding dripped paint, reminding her that she had it between her fingers, which stung to accommodate those rebellious strands that fell on his forehead.

She had never seen him like that, disheveled and different, and something inside her twisted, so she stared at the painting, trying to ignore what was happening. He seemed much better than the night before, and she looked back at his messy hair, which she had caressed.

"Greetings, doctor." She whispered, fixing her eyes on what she was trying to paint, managing to be indifferent to him and what he caused in her.

"I didn't know that you paint."

She did not stop looking at the paper.

"Yes."

"Can I sit?"

She hated anyone who left a chair right next to her, but she nodded. She heard his footsteps on the lawn approaching her and then also heard him swallow a moan as he sat down.

She took a breath while wetting the brush with more paint. She had to be polite, to engage in a friendly conversation, but it was impossible to spin two words in her mind, much less in her mouth.

She cleared her throat and when she was about to take a chance on the first thing that came to mind, he saved her.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

The typical conversation. It even caused her a bit of laughter, which she hid with a cough.

"Yes, it's very beautiful. How...how are you taking your treatment?" She felt her cheeks burn when she looked at him. He was sitting comfortably, with his legs crossed and his hands still in his pockets, but he was kind enough not to look directly at her.

"I'm fine." He sighed. She frowned, what she saw in the night did not show her that he felt good. He looked at her barely, and let out a resigned sigh. "I'm just a little sore. Well, not a little. I must say that I'm very sore. And you?"

She smiled when she heard him admit it, but still without looking at him.

"I'm fine." She lied.

He sighed again, and she could tell, without even looking at him, that he was nervous. She bit her lip, did not understand why she knew so much about him, probably because unconsciously, for months and months, she had been giving all her attention to the smallest thing he did or said. She shook her head, imperceptibly so that he would not see her, and took a deep breath in an attempt to control her own nerves.

He noticed that she shook her head.

From what little he remembered of the night, there was something he could not tell if it was true or the product of his previous dreams with her: he remembered blond strands falling from his cap. Now she was by his side, wearing the same cap, but all her hair was hidden. However, if he tuned his eyes well, he could see the little hairs on her nape, and they were blond. He was dying to run his fingers through them, and he felt guilty. She was completely innocent of the thoughts that sometimes invaded him.

"It seems that color doesn't convince you." He said in an attempt to distract himself.

She jumped, almost scared, and when he saw her eyes he knew that she was not thinking about her painting. He tried to let her invent some excuse, he hated to see her uncomfortable.

"I say it because you were looking at your work and shook your head."

"Oh yes, I don't like what I'm doing."

She said it with such absence in her voice that it was clear that she was not referring only to the painting.

He should go, stop bothering her, but he could not. A selfish part of him had him nailed there, sitting next to her, breathing her very air, eager to be in her company even if she was writhing with nerves, and so was he. He looked at the garden a bit, it was nice, yes, but nothing caught his attention, his whole mind was with the woman at his side.

He looked at her hands, knew they were soft, that her fingers were long and her wrists thin and pale. He tasted one of her hands once. His stomach began to knot at the memory.

Then, for more pain, she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes were the same blue as the sky she was painting with mastery.

"Do you...like to paint?"

The day he met her, he first met her voice. It was full of Scottish accent, so much that it seemed funny, but it was a voice that did not admit giggles. The first time, he heard her firm, almost authoritative. He had come to Nonnatus for something, and he heard that voice, new to him, coming from the kitchen. Sister Julienne told him that there was a new sister, still novice but excellent in her knowledge, so much so that she was already teaching the midwives, even though they were as new as she was. When he looked into the kitchen, he expected to find a woman the size of Sister Evangelina, but he had to suppress a laugh. The voice came from a girl, because she was just that, small and thin.

Over the years he heard that voice hundreds of times, some with more force, others with more sweetness. He thought he knew all its different tones, changes and colors, but that morning, with that question of "Do you like to paint?" he heard it for the first time full of nerves and fear.

"I don't know how to paint." He smiled the most reassuring smile he could. Don't be afraid, I will not hurt you. Please, forgive me, be my friend or whatever you want, he begged with his smile.

But she barely looked at him, her eyes were fixed, drawing a branch with a fine brush.

"But I like to look at paintings." He added stupidly. "And admire those who have the talent to make them."

She made a small nod of agreement, continuing to paint. She was frowning in concentration, her hand trembling a little.

Enough Turner, leave her alone, he told himself. He removed his hands from his pockets, ready to stand up and leave, but she raised her eyes to him, and as always, paralyzed him.

"I don't know how to paint, but I like to do it. When I was little girl I used to draw well at school. Once I even won a prize!"

He blinked, unable to believe what was happening. She was suddenly telling him things about her life, inviting him to know a little about her past. And she had also launched one of her contagious giggles.

He began to fill with hope, so he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, to be closer to the painting and show her that he was willing to hear more.

"For someone who doesn't know how to paint, I think it's very superior. Now, there are those paintings that don't make sense and you don't know if the artist has talent or is just a fraudster."

"Ugh, it's true." She pouted, not looking away from the painting. That attitude was funny, but he reminded himself not to smile.

"Watercolors are always ideal, is not it? Although, they are also difficult to manage. Or at least I remember that when I went to school."

"Yes." She looked at him, smiling. She no longer seemed nervous, but even comfortable. "But you just have to be patient."

She let out a sigh, leaning on the chair, moving away to contemplate her work. She had a frown and pursed lips, disapproving of what she saw. Her gesture seemed adorable, but also too sensual, her lips were more rosy than other times he looked at them insistently.

He swallowed and said the first thing that occurred to him.

"It is very beautiful."

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, shaking her head.

I don't know, I need to practice more. I used to paint while I studied nursing, I even went to several classes. But when I joined the Order, all that ended. I couldn't afford to have paintings, and I didn't have time either..."

Her voice trailed off, she was sad again, he could feel it. He had no doubt that she was unhappy with the life she had, and that was a selfish relief for him.

He took a breath, watching her approach her painting to evaluate it better. Before she painted something else and ruined it by interrupting her, he must tell her.

"I'm sorry for what happened last night."

Her face changed, her hands came together, twisting her fingers, and her eyes were down.

"It was nothing, doctor." She whispered and took another brush.

"No, it was a lot, I don't remember everything but I know that...it was a disaster. I don't know why you were there, but I appreciate it."

"The nurses called me, I just went to do my job."

Her voice was the firm voice he knew. She was painting again, refusing to look at him.

"I understand, but I owe you an apology anyway. I'm not that way. I mean, I don't have traumas or..."

It was not good to lie to her. That could be done with Sanders but not with her. But recognizing it would make him weak, make him imperfect more than he was, and worse, make her pity him. He wanted everything from her, except pity.

"Some people carry the treatment better, and others don't. It is understandable."

She was looking at him openly and he had to swallow. She did not believe him, but pretended to do it. He began to feel useless, stupid, idiot, and…

One of the brushes fell to the ground and rolled a little. In an attempt to hide the shame, he bent to pick it up, but she did the same. Without any intention, he brushed one of her fingers and the weak balance they had maintained, collapsed. Immediately she was standing, putting her things together.

"It's late, I must go. Goodbye doctor."

She tightened her nails on the small scar as she walked back to the building, carrying all her messy things. Maybe she had lost something along the way, but she would not return. She tried to keep the tears, biting her lip, and felt silly because there were no reasons to cry, and at the same time, there were thousands.

"Oh, you're here!" Nurse Peters exclaimed. "You still had a few minutes."

"I'm cold." She said, heading straight to her room. There she dropped the things on the bed and peeked out the window. He was still sitting in the same place, looking towards the road where she had left.

She raised the eyes to the sky, the sky she had just painted."

"God, why are you doing this to me? Why don't you answer me? Don't you get enough with everything I have given you, that I must also go through this?"

She sat on the bed. She did not understand why she told him about her life when she was little or when she was studying, or why nerves made her open to him in that way, making everything look perfect, normal, and daily, as if they were together forever.

She let the tears come out, but then wiped her eyes with her hands, and looked at the scar.

Then she looked at the window. Behind, there was everything she could have, but she did not dare to open it.

He felt a complete idiot. In fact, he could hear Tim's little voice when he said "Idiot!" and thought that if his son was here, looking at him, he would tell him that.

He should not have bothered her like that, almost harassing her when she was just happy, painting. The only thing he had achieved was that she would probably start avoiding him during all the time that remained here, that she would not go out to the park just to avoid seeing him.

He sat on the bed, running his hand over the quilt, thinking about what had happened. She was so nervous, and then she started talking and smiling and everything seemed perfect, as if nothing had happened before. It was a frank smile, he wanted to believe it. Maybe she loved him. She had told him, like an encrypted message, the afternoon he kissed her hand. If he thought about that and added it to her nerves, her dissatisfaction with her life, her smiles, her eyes that sometimes seemed to beg for something, the result was that she loved him.

He denied slowly.

"You are just a fool full of illusions. You're too broken for her to love you."

When he saw her again, ten days had passed.

Sometimes, he had to stay in his room, disturbed by fever or pain, but he could see her walking slowly through his window.

Other times, he went to the park, but when he asked about her, the nurses said that she was sick. So the days went by, without news.

One afternoon he went out to the garden, hoping to find her, and there she was, in the same place as the last time, painting.

They greeted each other in exactly the same way, a perfect tracing, and he again asked permission to sit next to her and she said nothing, just nodded.

Then, he decided to vary the conversation, since he had something else to tell her.

"Letters arrived today."

"Oh yes. I also received some."

"How are everyone in Nonnatus?"

"Very well." She left the brush with care, it had pink paint and he did not understand very well what she was going to paint. She clasped his hands and looked directly at him. He noticed that she wanted to smile, but she repressed herself, but her blue eyes were a party. "Guess who had twins."

"Twins? There were no twins diagnosed."

"No, but there was a surprise. Mrs. Plim had two girls, and according to Trixie, they are identical. She attended them and everything went more than good."

"These are beautiful news."

"Yes." She took the brush again, drew a line. "I'm glad Nurse Franklin was there, she's learning a lot and that will serve her as an experience."

"It is true. Although I don't think Mrs. Plim was very happy with the news, at least at the first moment."

"She already had four children...But boys. So two girls will surely have made her very happy when the commotion ended."

He smiled and tried to figure out what she was painting. Soon he knew it was a sunrise, or a sunset.

"Timothy wrote to me." She said after a while that felt incredibly comfortable.

"Oh, yes? I didn't know he wrote to you too. He must be spending everything on stamps."

She laughed heartily.

"He told me he's working and with that he pays for them."

"What? My son is working? And what is he supposed to do? I don't understand why he tells those things to you and to me only that 'school is boring'."

She let out another laugh, wide and tinkling and he joined.

She was perfect.

Maybe being happy was this.

What she was looking for, sometimes even without realizing it, was something like this. Sitting next to him in the sun, chatting about his son, sharing opinions of medical cases they knew, enjoying the tea that Nurse Peters kindly brought them. She laughing, he comfortable in his robe, also laughing, without structures in the middle. Maybe this was what she wanted, and she had it right now. But if she recovered, there would be no such moments. She would go back to her usual gray life.

She blinked, he kept talking about something, but stopped.

"Are you okay, sister?"

"Of course, I just got distracted a moment. Since you tell me that your son doesn't tell you anything, I'll have to tell you." She tried to stifle an accomplice giggle, in vain. "Tim told me he's helping Fred with...his new business."

"Oh no."

"That's what I thought. The two will end up arrested."

"And by Sgt Noakes. Can you imagine, half Nonnatus in jail?"

"Well, Sister Monica Joan already has some experience in that."

He laughed and she looked at him, he had a spark in his eyes, a spark of vitality, and now he was imitating Fred, a bad imitation, but it simply showed her that she did not know everything about him. She did not know about his funny side that only made her cheeks ache with laughter that she did not want to come out but that it was impossible to hide. She knew that with her laughter she gave him hope and she did not want that, not when she did not know where to go, what life to take.

But she kept on betraying herself.

She finished her painting, it was a bit silly but it had beautiful colors. She blew it to dry, and noticed that he was looking at her, no longer laughing, with fixed eyes, and trembled under that inquisitive gaze. She swallowed what was left of her tea.

"I'll send this one to Timothy." She opened a folder where she had piled up her silly little works and took out one, showing him. "I painted it on the days that I could not go outside, it's more or less what I see from my room."

"He will be happy. He...loves everything you do."

He took the paper and kept looking into her eyes. She had to look away from the floor, unable to follow the rhythm that he seemed to propose.

He returned the sheet of paper and she put it in the folder. She looked at what she had just done and pulled the painting off the easel. Her fingers trembled.

Do it now or never, she told himself although she did not understand why she was forced to do this.

"This one...is for you." She handed him the sheet. He opened his eyes wide, looking at the paper and looking at her.

"For me?" He looked totally bewildered. She smiled satisfied, if he managed to leave her speechless, she could do it too.

"Yes. It's not very pretty, but..."

"Thank you." He said with vehemence. "It is beautiful."

"It's very far from that." She answered. She was breaking many rules, and she could not do it one more time, and vanity was not something she liked.

Her courage evaporated, so she gathered her things hurriedly and fled like the last time, but without even greeting him.

This time, when she entered the room, she did not frantically. She left the things on her small desk and put her folder in a drawer.

Then, she opened the closet and took her habit, which had been resting there for almost two weeks. There was still time for her to recover, but if she did, she was not sure she could wear it again. The doubts were getting stronger.


	5. Chapter 5

Two months passed.

It was two months in which he had not seen her. She was still in his mind, at every moment, but luck had denied him the possibility of seeing her in front of his eyes for sixty insufferable days.

The worst was the lack of news. Every time he asked about her, the nurses told him that they did not know, that they would consult their female colleagues in the women's area, or that they had no idea. It seemed that they were plotted to tell him nothing and his mind began to run with the worst scenarios. What if she was not there anymore? What if she asked them not to say anything to him, because she was angry?

One day, the news began to arrive but it was worse than not knowing anything. They told him that she felt bad, or that she did not want to get out of bed. It did not help to ask them to tell her that he wanted to see her and greet her. All of his trips to the park were unsuccessful because she was never there, so he did not know if the nurses forgot to pass the message or they did, but she did not care.

He wondered if something had changed the last time they saw each other. Perhaps, she had wanted to tell him something with that painting she gave him, maybe it was not just a nice gesture to a person who was sitting next to her while she was painting. Now, he was looking continuously at two windows, the one in his room, and the one in the painting. A window opened towards a sunrise that he still did not understand.

He was not a man of faith, in fact, he had been lost it for a long time, but inside his bedside table he had found a small wooden cross. Some previous patient would have forgotten it, or worse, perhaps he died and left this little testimony of his beliefs hidden there.

When he found it, he thought of giving it to her. It would be to use a religious object to approach a nun he was in love with. That sounded heretic but what made him change his mind was not that but the knowledge that she would reject it, he knew that they could not accept gifts or have personal belongings other than those strictly necessary. He resolved to leave the cross in the drawer, and every night, after his dreaded night pills that assured him hours full of sweat and drowned screams so as not to be discovered, he took out the cross and looked at it. It was ridiculous to speak to a piece of wood, but he prayed for her. He begged God to make her feel good, to sleep well, to go out to the park. So that she would soon sing again, to work on what she liked, to ride a bicycle, to smile. Smile at him.

After that strange prayer to which he clung, he kept the cross and tried to sleep. Sometimes the nightmares gave way to dreams with her that embarrassed him when he woke up. However, he preferred them, of course. He even preferred war nightmares rather than other much worse ones that appeared over time: dreaming of his own death and she following her life, married to another man, happy with a family that was not his. One night he awoke, blood writhing at what his eyes had just seen, and it took him all his willpower not to leave the bedroom and go to look for her to shout at her not to leave him.

He calmed his breathing, looking at the ceiling although he could barely see it through the darkness of the room. He felt a wetness on his cheek and knew he was crying.

"I love you, Bernadette. I love you more than anything."

It was the first time he had said it aloud and to recognize it in that way, to get it out of his head to show himself that it was not just capricious ideas but a reality he could not escape from, only made it more painful.

He dried his tear and decided to do something. Two months had been enough. If the nurses did not tell him anything, and he could not visit her because it was forbidden, he would do something. And if that did not work, he would invent something else, and another, and another, until he knew about her.

Standing up, he turned on the light, opened a drawer of the small desk and looked for paper and a pen, and began to write.

* * *

Things were not going well. She knew it, she sensed it, the head repeated it to her.

She always avoided the mirror but one morning she took a quick look and got scared. She was white as a ghost, could count her ribs if she wanted to, and her dark circles were impossible to hide under her glasses. She had often seen bodies like that, bodies claimed by the death that was coming slowly until there was nothing left.

She sat on the bed and remembered the flattering words that Nurse Peters always had over her eyes, her hair, her hands. The nurse always celebrated any progress she made with her health, but she could not be fooled like that anymore.

She was going to die. She had two months here, any progress would be noticed in her body, but it looked worse than when she arrived. She stood up to look at herself again. When she entered the Order, the first thing she was told was that there would be no mirrors in her life, that they only fed vanity. She agreed with her vows that time she approached one to see herself without the habit and the glasses and discovered that she was pretty enough to go to a dance like the nurses. But now, looking in the mirror had no reason for vanity, but for investigation. She looked closer, running the tips of the fingers down her face.

She found herself equal to her mother. She had red hair, but that did not matter now. She was identical to her mother, her last memories evoked a woman with the same features and the same pain when the disease raged with her. She had died young, too young.

She was the same age as her mother when she died.

From the mirror reflection she saw the last letters that had arrived, lying on the bed. Her friends at Nonnatus had no idea that they only generated more stress, telling her how much they missed her, how her patients needed her. She was not sure if she could return one day.

Instead, Timothy's drawings caused her more and more emotion, but she felt as dead as the butterfly the boy sent her. At least, the butterfly had been a butterfly. She felt like a caterpillar, unable to get out of the cocoon. She was not even able to read the letters he sent her, and he was only on the other side of the building.

She returned her gaze to her face and, shaking her head, moved away from the mirror. The sisters were right, they were not good objects. Now the sadness invaded her with the moments of her gray childhood, her adolescence and solitary youth, and this adulthood full of doubts and with a single security, death.

"Dr. Turner asked for you, again." And there it was, one of her doubts.

She went back to bed, noticing how the nurse looked at her worriedly.

"You are not going out? Today is a beautiful day. You could paint a lot."

"No, I'll stay here." She responded by covering herself with the blankets.

"And what will you answer to the doctor?"

She shrugged and turned on the bed, covering herself more. She did not want to go out, nor see him, she wanted to stay there, and die as God had planned, and disappear forever. He could find a better life, because he would be healed. He was stronger, more necessary, he had a son to live for.

Why all her thoughts, unfailingly, ended with him?

"Honey, what's wrong with you?"

She felt the weight of the nurse sitting on the bed. Sometimes she thought that she could consider her a friend. The woman could do her job and leave, but she always seemed worried about helping her a little more. She smiled at her barely.

"I just have no desire of do nothing."

Nurse Peters sighed, looking toward the door.

"You know? I think you're depressed."

She opened her eyes wide, and sat up.

"No, no, I just feel strange." She forced a smile and discovered that her face ached, as if the muscles had forgotten how to do it. But the nurse's gaze left no doubt that she thought that about her.

"Maybe I should talk to Dr. Lynn to prescribe something to you and..."

"No! Please!"

A thousand images lashed her mind. People who were diagnosed, who were treated with terrible medications, who were admitted to Linchmere, subjected to electroshock. She could not let them believe she was depressed, even if it was true. She did not want such torture.

She looked at the nurse, grabbed her hand.

"Please."

"All right, all right, I will not say anything. But could you tell me what's wrong with you?"

She took a breath and let it go slowly. The interest was genuine, it was not for gossip, but she would not tell her everything.

"I know it all. I know I'm going to die. You are cheating me, I saw myself in the mirror and...it's unacceptable. I'm thin and horrible."

"And for whom do you want to be pretty?"

She felt the question hit her. Far below all her concern for her body, her resemblance to her mother, the certainty that she would die, was that. She looked ugly. She was not pretty for him.

Suddenly she wanted to cry when she saw her own stupidity before her.

The nurse smiled and patted her hand.

"I don't know where you got that I'm cheating on you. You saw the X-rays yourself, you go better every day. But you don't convince yourself and don't go out to take a breath, you don't even move. Is this just what is bothering you?"

"Yes, it's just that." She whispered. "I'd like to sleep a little."

Sighing, the woman stood up and arranged her blankets.

"Are you not going to answer the notes that he was sending you?"

She shook her head.

"He must be the most boring man in the world."

* * *

She awoke and looked everywhere. It was already night and her stomach roared. That was a good sign, having appetite meant that the body was recovering.

She took off her cap, snorting in exasperation, and felt her hair fall on the pillow.

"I don't even know if it's worth recovering me."

The nurse was right, she was depressed. But she was also furious. Her life full of doubts was a roller coaster that took her from the most absolute sadness to a rage against herself for not being able to decide.

She turned on the light and searched for her Bible. When she opened it, one of the many notes she had been receiving from him fell on her chest. And, damn her luck, the note was in Psalm 51, one that she memorized word by word from so much praying for forgiveness for her great sin.

She closed the book with a thud and left it on the night table. She sat down, arms folded as if she were an angry child. This could not continue like this.

She should call Sister Julienne, ask her for advice. The woman was wise, she always had the answers. But also, she hesitated about telling her everything. She felt like a traitor, she would disappoint her. Julienne was like her mother, and if she complained about losing her own, how could she abandon her, which was her second chance to know maternal love?

She glanced at the Bible. She opened it and took out the note. It was one of the first that had arrived, a small envelope with a single paper inside. With the passing of days, the notes were transformed into letters, judging by the size of the envelopes and their thickness, revealing that there was more than one sheet. All the envelopes were well sealed, surely there was a fear that indiscreet eyes would look at the contents.

She swallowed hard, her hand caressing the sender, a letter she knew very well, forming a scribble that said "Dr. Turner". One of her nails slid under the fold. Then they joined the fingers, tearing the envelope. When she was about to take out the sheet, she opened the drawer of the night table, where dozens of identical envelopes waited to be opened. She threw the one in her hands inside and closed the drawer with a hit.

She wished with all her soul to read them. She also wanted to see him, but she was in the middle of this feeling of not knowing where to go, she felt desolate and without direction, but it was her own journey and she had to finish it alone. Besides, she could be making a horrible mistake. Maybe he did not feel the same as her. Reading letters that did not tell her what she expected would only make her feel worse and continue with her life as always, when it was already clear that she did not want that.

With him or without him, she would no longer return to Nonnatus. At least not as a nun.

She inhaled slowly, staring at the wall, the statement she had created in her mind was too powerful and she felt, for the first time, satisfied with herself.

"Very well, Shelagh." She was surprised to say her own name out loud. It had been a long time since she had heard it. "You have to do it. You will not die, and you will tell Sister Julienne everything that happens to you, and she will understand. And then you will read the letters but that will not change your decision. Now, for God's sake, stop thinking about him for even five minutes!"

But it was not so easy. Not when she still remembered her last dream. Her hands were always icy, the cold of Scotland ran through her veins, and in the dream, he invited her to have tea, like that time in Nonnatus. And she did not give him a negative. She sat next to him, debating the causes of the baby that died. And he, suddenly, took her hands, and his hands were so warm that they warmed hers, while his beautiful and good eyes warmed her heart.

"You're so silly!" She scolded herself. But she could not help looking at her hands, now warm as if he really had taken them in his.

* * *

_"Dear Sister Bernadette"_

He squeezed the paper and tossed it into the trash can.

She was not answering. He wondered if even she was in the sanatorium. Maybe she left, forbidding anyone to tell him about her. Maybe she had died...

He looked at the sky, holding back the tears.

_"No God, please."_

He grabbed another sheet of paper but a knock on the door stopped him.

Seeing Sister Julienne gave him both relief and concern in equal measure. The good woman smiled at him, told him about Tim even though he already knew everything with the letters and calls to his mother-in-law. She told him about different news, but did not tell him what he wanted to know.

"How is Sister Bernadette?"

The nun blinked, surprised.

"You have not seen her?"

"No. She never comes out, they always tell me she's not feeling well, and I've been sending her notes and..." He stopped, feeling he was talking too much. Julienne looked at him curiously, raising her eyebrows.

"She doesn't answer?"

"No. I don't know anything, and it's strange, we're in the same place and it's been a while since I saw her."

"I still didn't see her, I wanted to talk to you first and tell you about the patients...I'll go right now to chat with her. She called me because she wanted to see me, and I noticed a certain urgency in her voice."

Worry coiled in his stomach.

"Will you go back and tell me how she is?"

He did not want to sound that desperate, but it was too late. He was certain that Julienne knew much more than she said, and that what she did not know, she sensed. At that moment, her gaze was indecipherable and he was afraid of being discovered. He wanted to run away, as if he were a child.

The nun made a tight smile and put a hand on his shoulder, saying goodbye. Just when she left, he realized that she had not given him an answer.

* * *

She was forced to go outside. It would not be good to receive the visit she had been waiting for so long in bed, so she waited patiently in the park, without raising her eyes for fear of finding him.

When she heard Julienne's voice, she knew how much she had missed the calm and peace that came from listening to her. When she saw her, she wanted to throw herself into her arms but she was still a nun and those demonstrations of affection were far away. A part of her mind told her that if she stopped being a nun, and Julienne still accepted her, she could hug her and thank her for everything she had done for her, as many times as she wanted.

She did not know how to start the conversation, but when asking about all Nonnatus, the woman refused to answer and went straight to the point. She was surprised, began to play with her fingers, doubting the words that meticulously classified to explain what she was feeling.

Julienne interrupted her thoughts, in the worst way.

"I was with Dr. Turner, he's recovering very well. But he told me he has not seen you."

"No." She whispered.

"Don't you leave your room?"

"No, I'm always shivering with cold, I prefer to stay there." She raised her eyes hoping to find the sympathetic smile of her mentor, but only found an inquisitive look.

"He told me he was sending you notes..."

"Yes but I didn't answer." She interrupted. "Sister, I called you to talk about something."

Quite a while later, as they walked through the park and she felt her numb legs recovering, she ended the most difficult conversation she had in recent years. She talked about being in front of a window, seeing everything she wanted for her, but afraid to open it. She spoke of feeling dead when in reality she was beginning to understand that her illness was not moving her away from life, but bringing her closer. Julienne listened, letting her express everything, without looking her in the eye. When it seemed that there was nothing more to say, the nun stopped, mentioning that the path she wanted to take was not going to be easy. But what could be more complicated than her present?

"Promise me that you will think about this very well." Said Julienne as she said goodbye.

"Sister, I've thought about it a lot."

She felt her hands squeezing on her elbows.

"You know there's no turning back."

She nodded. The woman did not speak to convince her, there was not a flash of selfishness in her eyes, only a mother's concern about her daughter's well-being.

Before leaving, Julienne squeezed her hands.

"I'll be praying for you, dear. For you two."

Before she could get out of her astonishment, the woman had disappeared through the door.

She looked at the windows of the men's area, hoping to find him, but immediately looked away.

* * *

He sighed when he saw them from his room. Her little sad face, worried, the face also worried of Julienne, a farewell and then she alone, scrutinizing the windows. He felt he could be discovered behind the curtains and pulled away.

He knew that Julienne would not return. Who knows what the nun would be thinking about him, what Bernadette would have told her about him. His behavior was atrocious. He sighed again, trying to think of something else.

Sanders was licensed. He did not ask why, he was relieved that he did not see that stupid man anymore. He thought he could replace him. Anyone could be better than Sanders, even a sad tuberculous like him. In addition, work was his refuge first and foremost and he missed it very much.

One of the nurses, a petite redhead who liked gossip, told him that the sanitarium was in trouble to get other doctors. It did not seem like a novelty, the country was short of doctors. If it were not so, he would not spend his days running from house to house as he had been doing for years.

"I can help."

He used his best smile. He was not playing fair, he should not smile like that at a girl. His male arrogance knew that sometimes produced some effect in some women. He suppressed a laugh when he saw the blush of the nurse.

"I don't know. You are a patient."

"But I'm better now."

"Yes. I've seen your last x-rays and it's very good. You only need a little more to be completely healthy."

"Then I could help here."

"I don't know if it would be fine, you are ill and..."

"The patients are also, and with the same disease." Again, his smile. The girl cleared her throat, looking away. "Come on, please."

"I shall all I can do, doctor."

The girl left and he sighed. Working was what he was born for, and these weeks of doing nothing but doing the puzzles that Tim sent him, they had him fed up.

After a while, the redhead nurse appeared with a seductive smile.

"Doctor, come. It seems you got a job."

* * *

She suppressed a moan of pain as she took her abdomen.

"That's the last thing I need!" She complained.

After Julienne left, she felt relief and certainty. In addition, the air of the park, although a little cold, had revitalized her, and the small walk made her feel that her body was responding favorably. Even though she was still quite worried, a small smile bloomed on her face, but the pain came.

She complained again, sitting on the bed. Since the treatment began, her cycle became a disaster. If she remembered, it started before, maybe when she got sick. But in the sanitarium things became erratic and painful. Nurse Peters came in and found her lying on the bed. She wanted to tell her about the cycles, but even though she was a midwife, she was embarrassed and felt like a fool. She trusted that everything would return to normal when she was cured.

"Are you feeling good?"

"Of course." She lied.

Her punishment for lying came in an instant, when she felt her lungs close, leaving her without air. This was new and painful. If she was improving, it was incomprehensible why she was feeling that she would die at that moment.

The nurse ran and immediately returned. She made her swallow a pill and in a few seconds, she began to relax.

"That's right, take all the air you can." She instructed.

There followed a dry cough, and a great choking.

"Just calm down. Believe it or not, that means you're better. The lungs look dead but in reality they are getting stronger."

"It can't be true."

"You are a stubborn girl. I know that five seconds ago it looked like they were exorcising you, ups, sorry." The nurse laughed. "But you're improving. It is the last symptoms you will have, there is very little of the disease left."

She coughed again, then smiled, feeling relieved. Then, without knowing the reason, she lost consciousness.

"I would like to see my friend Sister Bernadette."

He smiled, as Tim did when he asked for something after having behaved very well during the day. He called it "smile of a clever boy", and at that moment he felt like that, like a boy waiting for a prize.

He could only see a couple of patients, one worse than another, and then they confined him to Sanders' office, full of files. It was an enclosure made a complete disaster. He himself had a mess in his own office, but this surpassed everything. He did not plan on spending his day ordering papers, but at least he was not in bed, or in the park waiting to see her in any corner. Here he also had her in mind, in fact, he had worked hard to ask for this small concession. But this time, his smile had no effect on the dark-haired nurse who consulted her watch.

"Your friend is in the women's area and you can't go there. It is forbidden, rules of the place."

"I know, but I'm her GP and I'd like to know how she is. I also work with her and it is necessary that I..."

"Okay, okay, you are a headache. Follow me." She replied annoyed.

He followed her, happy as a puppy. The nurses in the women's area looked him up and down, but did not say anything.

They stopped in front of a door.

"Wait here." The nurse entered.

In what seemed like an eternity, he waited, trying to calm his breathing. When he saw the woman leave, he prepared to receive a "no" in response.

"You can enter."

He regretted not having flowers on hand, or looking more presentable and not with this horrible dressing gown that she had already seen. He ran his hand through his hair, stopping when the nurse raised an eyebrow. When he entered, he had the best greetings ready in his mouth, but that was not necessary.

"Oh doctor, it's good that you're here."

He thought he heard someone greeting him, but he did not answer. All his senses were towards the bed.

"She has not been very good. A few minutes ago she fainted."

There he focused his attention and knew that the speaker was a nurse. She looked worried and explained that Sister Bernadette was doing very well, that she was improving day by day and her x-rays were close to excellence. Then he heard the word "depression" and something froze inside him. No, she could not be like that, suffering that way.

He approached the bed, she was asleep. She was beautiful, perfect, the skin a porcelain and the blond eyelashes fluttered barely giving way to more beauty still, in her eyes. Her look was sad and confused. She squeezed her eyelids and let out something like a complaint.

"And also, her cycle has come."

"God, nurse, it is not necessary that you tell him everything about me!"

It was hard not to laugh. She was furious and had got up, sitting down and looking at the nurse with hatred.

"He's the doctor, he has to know everything."

He saw a wink he did not understand, then he returned his gaze to her, who started coughing. He handed her a glass of water on the night table, she took it without looking at him.

"Sister, have you been feeling bad these days?"

She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the quilt. The nurse interceded.

"She doesn't want to get out of bed, but today she did. Then her lungs closed, I know it's normal but she fainted."

Instinctively he put the stethoscope on his ears. He had to listen to how the lungs were and if episodes like this were repeated.

Then, when he saw the nurse sit on the bed and help her with the buttons of the nightgown, he realized that he should not do this. Moreover, he should leave as soon as possible. He took off his stethoscope and his voice betrayed him, coming out stumbling and nervous.

"I don't think it is necessary to check her, we already know from the x-rays that she is fine, the fainting is due to the lack of air when her lungs closed."

The nurse looked at him, bewildered.

"Are not you going to check her?"

"It's better that you do it, doctor." He heard her voice, small and shy, nothing compared to the angry voice she had directed towards her nurse.

He swallowed, cursing himself for this. Her selfishness, once again, was hurting her. He only thought of seeing her, and now he saw her, but not as he wanted and she refused to look at him, and seemed about to cry.

_You're so old and so stupid, Turner._ He told himself again and again. He would never deserve her, because he continually made mistake after mistake and now he would submit her to the same as he did months ago, just for the whim of wanting to know about her.

He swallowed again, the buttons had already parted and he stood behind her. He was horrified by what he saw. If there was something that he could not get out of his mind was the creamy and smooth skin of her back and chest, the small moles and freckles that barely stained. He had dreamed countless times with that, he knew her by heart, but now, that skin was pale and thin, almost transparent and he could count her vertebrae if he wanted to.

He felt like crying. This precious creature had suffered a lot, she did not deserve so much pain. He held up his stethoscope and listened, fearing the worst. They sounded almost clean, almost normal. Just a little more, he thought. Endure the pain, love, just a little more.

Then he moved to her chest. The scene was almost identical, she looked away, breathed as he asked. Her clavicles were more marked, and he thought of the wooden cross and the prayers he made each night. He was grateful and disappointed, because she was recovering but she was also suffering.

"You are very good." It was the only thing he could tell her.

The nurse stood up, said something and left. She made the buttons quickly.

"I wrote you." He whispered.

She continued with the buttons, her fingers trembled.

"Yes, but I didn't read them. Thank you Doctor."

He felt as if she had nailed him a dagger.

Then, without knowing how, he found himself closing the door and fleeing to his room.

That same night, he again attended one of the patients of the morning. The poor man died while he was there. The old man did not say anything, nor did he ask for anyone. It had been a quiet death, like so many others he had seen before. The next morning the man would be retired and he had to sign some papers. He would be buried right away, he had no family or friends.

When he returned to his room, he felt the frustration that often felt when things did not go as he wanted. He collapsed on the bed, thinking. Of course his mind returned to her, so small and thin, so sad and worried. He decided that he would write one last letter. He would say everything, it did not matter if she would not read it, on the contrary, it would be better. After that, he would stop bothering her, forever.

It was time to stop hurting her.

He searched for the few remaining sheets of paper and sat on the bed, with his knees bent and his pen.

_"Bernadette:_

_I don't even know if that's your real name. It is useless to write to you when you have told me clearly that you don't read me, but I promise that this is the last letter._

_Tonight I attended a patient here, from the sanatorium. He died and there is no one to complain or cry for him. Many times we have seen this, however, perhaps because this time I have the same disease as him, I feel different. This man ended his life and has left this world and nobody is here to love him and miss him. It is sad that emptiness, to die and that everything ends there. I thought about what it would be like if I were that old man. Dying and everything's over._

_I have been told that I am much better, and everything is going well. But I don't want to leave this world without telling you what I feel. I don't know when it started, although I remember specific things about you. The first time I heard your voice, the first time I saw you, the first and only cigarette we shared. How can you reprimand people taking care that they don't feel bad, how sweet you are with babies and new mothers, the infinite patience you handle with Sister Evangelina. I remember when you took care of Tim, you healed his arm and I wanted you to also heal my heart with that delicacy and that love._

_I know a lot about you and at the same time I know so little. And even so, with so few things, I fell in love with you. Because that's what happens to me with you. Believe me that I tried everything to avoid it, so as not to bother you, so that you would not discover it and it would make you uncomfortable. I know I'm wrong, very bad, but I love you, and it's very hard to say but it doesn't make sense to keep hiding it. I think the disease should help us learn some things and one is this, talk when you have to do it._

_I've been praying for you, even though you know I'm not like that. I've been asking God to make you better every day and you can heal quickly and be able to do the things you love._

_I don't even care if you'll look at me one day, you can even beat me for daring me so much. But I don't want to die without telling you what I feel. And I know that I have had another woman before, that I have a son to love, that I have lived a whole life without you, but I can't deny that you are the most important thing to me, even though you are as unattainable as heaven._

_Sometimes I think you feel the same, but your refusal to answer me, to look at me, and your devotion to God, make me doubt. You don't need to respond to this letter. I just want you to know this and nothing more. I promise not to bother you anymore, we will work as usual, as if nothing had happened. You just need to know that if you ever need me, I'll be there for you, whatever it is. And that I will love you always, even if I die, I will continue to love and care for you forever._

_Sorry about this. I'm really sorry."_

He reread the letter, shaking the head, feeling pathetic. He was about to throw it into the trash can, but then stopped.

He placed the letter in an envelope and called the nurse.

* * *

She knew that she broke his heart when she answered that, but more anguished was the fact that he had seen her, again, like this. When she let her imagination fly, since she was in the convent, she imagined that he would see her differently, and that he would kiss her, and he would find her attractive. However, he had already seen her twice and one was worse than the other. So horrible, in the middle of medical exams, listening to her stupid lungs, putting a stethoscope instead of his lips.

"And here you have another one."

She looked at the nurse. She hated her since the day before, when she talked too much, and then she left her alone with him. It was obvious that the woman knew a lot and what she did not know was invented in her head, probably a romantic novel like the ones Trixie read.

The woman left another envelope and left without saying anything else. She sighed, he continued writing despite everything.

Her decision was firm. She would leave the Order, there was no turning back. For a long time she believed that she was in the right life but in the wrong place, when in fact she was living the wrong life. She was going to change that, and nothing that said those letters would make her retreat.

Taking a breath, she opened the drawer. She started with the first of the notes. She opened it, feeling the beating of her heart in her ears.

It was simple.

_"I haven't seen you painting for a long time. Are you feeling good? Please answer, the nurses are not telling me anything."_

The next was similar and others also. Then there was a clear invitation.

_"Today I will be in the park, I've seen that there is a lot of sun. I will wait for you."_

That sounded like a date. She remembered seeing him one day from her window, alone, looking everywhere. That day she decided not to look outside anymore.

She continued with the letters. She imagined him sitting, playing with the pen, thinking what to say. Some letters talked about Tim's latest news, about how bad he was with a doctor named Sanders. Sometimes he was funny, and she remembered his laugh. Sometimes he was serious, academic, commenting on things he had read in a medical journal. Other times, he talked about his nightmares. They were sad, and she felt the tears pricking when she remembered him scared and screaming like a child that night.

Suddenly, some letters took another course and spoke of a redhead nurse and "quite pretty". For the first time in her life, she felt what jealousy was. What was he doing looking at a redhead nurse? Then she would laugh when he commented that he used the poor girl to get salt in his meals or to work as a doctor.

In the letters there were even bad jokes, some drawings even worse, and silly comments. It was clear that some were meant to entertain her and make her laugh, others to think. He had taken so much time writing this, and she just systematically ignored him. However, she could see that there was something more than a sign of friendship in all of them. She did not know if they were her own desires or they were really there, until she got to the last one, the one that had just been brought by Nurse Peters.

If she had doubts, they disappeared.

She touched the signature of "P. Turner". Infinite times she rolled his name on her lips, trying out different tones. He probably did not know that she knew his first name. She thought about how he would name hers when he knew, even how he would try to write it and she would correct him. She laughed barely, between tears.

Everything was there, in the last letter. She wanted to run to hug him but she was still so afraid. She dried her tears, and lay down, with the letter under her pillow. She slid her fingers to touch it, thinking about what she would do. She must answer him as soon as possible.

She must see him as soon as possible.


	6. Chapter 6

She gave a little smile when the nurse gave her the good news. Just three more days, and she would leave.

She was totally healed, the x-rays and analysis assured her.

"At the end you can go out and make your life."

"Yes." She smiled again.

Make your life. It sounded so simple. People made their life all the time, every day. It was, precisely, part of life to make a path of its own. However, she was on the edge of the road, undecided about when and how to stand on it and start walking.

Nervous, she looked at the closet. The habit was still there. Sometimes she saw it as a shadow about to swallow her back to something she did not want anymore. Sometimes, she looked at it with pity. She had hundreds of memories linked to it, it was the rope that kept her attached to a community of people she loved and that they loved her. Without it, she would be a stranger in the world, without family or friends.

The thought accelerated her heart. Could she be able to cope with this? What if she was wrong? What if she realized one morning that it had all been a bad move on her mind to torment her with other desires that she did not really have?

She shifted her gaze to the bedside table. She did not see them, but she knew they were there. The letters were stored in the drawer, wrinkled by so many times they were read. She took a breath and adjusted her robe, left the room. She should make a call.

* * *

He yawned. The previous night had been like all of them, agitated. Among his worries was Tim. His mother-in-law had called him to inform that the boy was with the flu. As a doctor, he knew that a flu was normal for a child, but as a parent, he could not help but think terrible things. His son was sick, with a father also sick and a mother dead. He was with his grandmother, probably careful to the extreme and with all his whims fulfilled, but he knew his son and knew that behind his face of clever and self-sufficient child hid a little boy who still asked hugs from his father and a story by nights. To think him sick was squeezing his heart.

He yawned again, the park was particularly boring: few people, some clouds in the sky, a breeze a little cold. All there was to see, he had seen it countless times already. He did not find anything that surprised or caught his attention.

He put the hands in the pockets, touched his beautiful treasure, tempting himself with it.

"Doctor."

He turned sharply when he heard her. Maybe because of his tiredness he had fallen asleep and had one of his many dreams with her, but there she was, approaching him, with a shy smile.

"Oh...hi." He insulted himself for that nervous and silly greeting. She seemed not to notice.

"How are you?" She had stopped at his side, but staring at something and frowning. He did not understand what was happening, until she took a couple of steps in the direction of something.

"Is something happening?" He asked, still not understanding.

"It has flowered!" She exclaimed, leaning over a plant. He went to see, and saw between her hands a small white rose. "Many times I saw this rose bush and I wondered when it would bloom."

"If you want, I can cut it for you." He felt like a medieval knight saying that, until he saw her look full of anger.

"Don't even think about it." She rebuked him. "It must remain there, how could you cut it? That would be wild!"

He swallowed. Was it possible that whenever he was with her, he ruined everything?

"I'm sorry, I…"

But once again, like so many other times, she surprised him by releasing a laugh, shaking her head.

"I was just kidding, but your face was very funny. Sorry, really, excuse me."

She seemed to want to suppress her laughter, even though she was not succeeding. It was a relief to see her like this. The last time, she was so sick, weak, and sad, and now he had her in front with red cheeks and laughing. She did not look like her, she looked like another person. The revelation left him stunned, and his face must have reflected it, because she laughed again.

"So, do you want the flower or not?"

"No, I don't want it. It must stay there, it's very beautiful to cut it by a simple whim." She answered, more calmly. Both cleared their throat at the same time, something that seemed to make fun, again, to her, as she laughed barely.

A few minutes ago he was bored with the park, and now he was surprised again with it.

She did not know well what a silly joke that was, but she could not stand the laughter when she saw him. Maybe because she did not laugh in months, or because his face had really been funny. While they laughing, she had focused a part of her mind on seeing him, observing him. Before, she asked him how he was, but then the surprise for the rose interrupted her. Now, she was watching him to know, before asking him again and receiving a lie from him.

She found him well. Tired, yes, and she noticed him bored and worried, and a little anxious too.

"How are you?" She repeated the question.

"Good, very good. Tickety boo and all that they say." She smiled at the lie, but decided not to insist.

"In three days they will give me the discharge."

His face changed, full of surprise.

"In three days?"

"Yes. And you?"

"I...I haven't had any news yet."

She felt so foolish. She should have asked him that before telling the good news. She supposed that he would also be discharged, they both were in similar stages of the disease when they entered the sanatorium. If she, who had had a very bad time, was free, why not him? Despair began to surface through all her pores. Suddenly she felt a terrible need to touch him, to know how he really was, and an irrational fear of losing him.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't..."

"Don't worry, sister. I'm happy, very happy for you. I guess I have no news about me because it is harder for old people to get out of diseases." He gave her a sad smile.

She bit her lip, looking for something else to say. She was in the park for a reason, but she did not find the courage to say it. Suddenly her mouth spoke before she could think.

"I read your letters."

God, this man had a host of different surprised faces. This, was a face of surprise mixed with shock and horror. She felt like running before continuing to sink with everything she was doing in just a few minutes with him.

"And what did you think?" He said barely recovering.

"You are a terrible drawer."

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him laugh.

"I told you I was not good with that."

"I didn't think it was so serious." She smiled, continuing with the joke. "I'm glad you're better with the words."

His laughter faded. Now he was staring at her, he was asking for something with those eyes that chased her everywhere. She swallowed, she was adult and mature, she should not wait to speak only driven by his questions. She should do it alone. She took a breath.

"I read them all. Even the last one."

"I'm sorry for that, really, I'm..."

"Don't interrupt me, please." Her voice came out too hard, she tried to soften it by taking more air. The action made her hear how her heart beat strongly inside her chest. "I read them. I did it in one go, because I had not read any, not even the first notes. I was trying to find a direction for myself and I could not get carried away by what I felt, or rather, by what I feel and…and..."

The words abandoned her. Her mind was blank. More or less she had prepared something to tell him, but everything sounded silly, or too formal, or too intimate... She did not know how to express herself in front of him. She felt like crying. She could not do it, she could not stop feeling like a stupid girl and ill prepared for everything. Surely he would be, at that moment, regretting having written everything he wrote. Surely he would be realizing that she was an idiot unable to spin two sentences together.

"Do you want one?"

She saw what he was offering her: a cigarette that he had just taken out of one of his pockets. She looked at him without understanding.

"I stole it from another patient."

Was he teasing her? His laughter distracted her.

"I was kidding, a patient gave it to me. Your scandalized face was very funny." He laughed, hardly looking at her.

"I see you want revenge."

"Something like that." He shrugged and offered the cigarette again, extending the palm of one of his hands, where the thin tube rolled barely.

"No, thanks. I was telling you that..."

Her nerves had not calmed down with the joke, let alone when he lit the cigarette and put it to his mouth, looking indifferently at the trees. She knew him well, so she knew that the trembling of his hands betrayed his face. She gave up when she smelled the smoke, she had not tasted one for months.

"Just a puff, please."

He smiled, and taking it from his mouth, he looked everywhere. She did too, the few people who were in the park walked at the far end, far away. They took a couple more steps, until they were not only further away but also a bit hidden among the trees. She felt like when she was a girl hiding in the field to smoke the cigarettes stolen from her father. Even an involuntary giggle escaped her, which he seconded.

She took the cigarette from between his fingers, careful not to touch them. She relaxed immediately upon feeling its flavor. This was too similar to something happened a long time ago, only that it was not in a caring and delicate park like this, but in a dirty street and after a night of terror.

She was passing the cigarette back to him when she started coughing.

That cough scared him. She was cured, she could leave in a few days, but the cough was not normal. He threw the cigarette to the floor, stepped and cursing it, and moved closer to her, who continued to cough, with a major choking. He put a hand on her back, rubbed it just barely and she seemed to calm down.

"I suppose my lungs forgot how to do it." She said in a choked and strange voice. She coughed again, then pulled a handkerchief from one of her pockets and blew her nose. "Sorry."

"Do you feel better?"

"Yes." She waved her hand to disperse the smoke. "If they heard me and come here, they will discover us."

"And they can think of anything."

She abandoned the naughty little smile on her face. Her look became serious and worried.

"You were telling me something before."

He saw her swallow, then shook her head. She seemed about to cry.

"I can't do it."

She took a half step to leave, but he took her hand. It was small and cold, just as he remembered it. Her eyes looked at him with a flash of anger behind the tears, then she relaxed. She let go slowly, sliding her fingers, as if she did not want to. To fulfill her desire, he took it again, more gently this time. He heard her take a breath, but he did not look at her face, he was looking at her pale and trembling hand. He wanted to kiss it, of course, but that would ruin all this strange meeting. So he just had it in his own hand, lowering it, and looking into her eyes.

She took a breath again.

"I'm going to leave the Order."

Saying it out loud and in front of him had taken every atom of energy she had in her body.

Now she felt weak, and at the same time with a huge burden off her shoulders. Not even in the meeting with Sister Julienne had she said it openly, nor did she say so in the solitude of her bedroom. The sentence was in her head pronounced many times, but never left her mouth.

Neither did she think that, if she ever said it, it would be to him. But his warm hand taking hers, and that pleading look he had, and the incoherent words she said earlier when explaining to him about the letters, had all led her to finally say her decision. However, at the moment it was all she could handle.

When she saw him bringing her hand to his lips, she withdrew it again.

"No!" It was almost a scream. She looked to the side, took a breath and tried to say it more softly. "No. I'm still...I'm still a nun. I can't do more than this, please don't ask me more than this."

She wanted to leave, but he still held her with his hand. She looked at him, and for the first time in months she felt happy. Happy to see happiness in the eyes that she loved the most.

She had arrived unexpectedly and unexpectedly was gone. What had just happened was surreal, but he still had the softness in his hand and all her scent around him, telling him it was true, a reality.

She read his letters, and she would leave the Order. For him? He did not know. He was sure that question would consume him for a long time until he knew something else, but for the moment he wanted to enjoy this little gift that God, or some higher entity, had given him. She approached him, deliberately, spoke a little, joked, smoked his cigarette and then let him take her hand. Of course he made the harmony disappear when he could not resist kissing it. But she, despite that, gave him that look that said so much, that answered the question.

When he went to bed that night, he knew that at last he could sleep more calmly. He had a stupid smile on his face, and when he raised his eyes to the ceiling, he thought about when she left the sanitarium. Maybe she would be dressed as a nun, after all, it was the clothes she entered. But what if she went out in another way? His mind began to draw thousands of different scenes in which he would see her as she was. Perhaps with a sophisticated hairstyle, or loose hair, dressed in a color other than blue and white, laughing as she had laughed that afternoon with him.

He never paid much attention to his house, mostly because he was almost never there, but if he did not remember badly, on winter afternoons the sun would come in through the living room window. It was an excellent place for her to sit down and paint. He could almost see her with a frown and a raised brush, and spots of colored paint on her fingers.

"Stop now, you're thinking too much!" He pressed the fingers to his eyelids, trying to stop his cheerful head. He sighed and switched off the light. It was tempting to daydream, imagining even for a while a perfect future with her.

* * *

The joy of Sister Julienne vanished when she asked for her old clothes.

The woman had come to her sister's call as soon as she could, and she arrived worried, and then she was happy with the good news, and suddenly she was worried again, and full of sadness.

Bernadette repeated that she must be strong. She did not have to give in. For once she must think of herself.

Sister Julienne's face changed a little when she made sure of her sister's decision. She seemed a little more convinced, but still worried. It hurt her in the soul to do this to someone she loved and admired, but it was necessary.

When they said goodbye, Sister Julienne hugged her. She had been longing for this hug for a long time, so she held on as much as she could. When they parted, she repeated something she had said several times while chatting together.

"I'm so sorry, sister."

The nun smiled at her, taking her by the arms.

"I told you there is nothing to forgive. It's your decision, and you came to it with a lot of pain. Now you deserve to have the life you're looking for. Soon you will receive your suitcase. And then I wait for you in Nonnatus for...you know."

She did not know, but she imagined it. Formalities, a bureaucracy that seemed out of place at a time that would be the last thing that would happen with her mentor, and the most painful.

When she returned to her room, she sat on the bed and sought refuge in something that was now her lifeline: the letters.

* * *

"This is for you."

She looked up. He was standing in front of her, without a dressing gown but with ordinary, disheveled clothes. He had an envelope in his hand.

"For me?"

"Who else?" He smiled. She concealed a sigh, she could die for that smile, and admitting to herself, even if it was barely, filled her with a strange emotion. She took the envelope.

He sat in front of her. They were in the sanatorium room, it was already night and dinner would soon be served. She was spending time reading a magazine that another patient left forgotten. She tried, without success, to understand the fashion that she would have to submit to once she stepped on the street. She felt frustrated, she did not have the money or the audacity to wear clothes and hairstyles like the ones she saw. She was about to leave the magazine aside when he appeared. And now he was sitting in front of her, and she had a new envelope between her fingers.

"How do you prepare for tomorrow?"

She smiled. Since the last time they saw each other, the way they treated each other had changed. They did not have so many formalities in between. Now they looked the same, and the best thing was that it happened as a tacit agreement between them.

"I'm very nervous."

"I would be relieved and excited. I can't believe that my life is reduced to reading the comics that my son sends me."

They laughed a little.

"Don't you know anything about you?"

"I don't. I'm not too worried either, I know I'm fine. I'm just bored."

He was lying to her, again. She felt proud to know him so well, and she did not feel that as a sin, as she had so many other times, but as a skill that she perfected over time.

"What time will you go?"

"At 9."

"Very well, I hope to see you to say goodbye."

"Of course."

The nurses interrupted, calling for dinner. When they stood up, he looked for something in his pockets. She thought that he would take out another cigarette, she would really admire him for his courage in doing that in front of the nurses, but he took out something that left her speechless: a small wooden cross.

"This is also for you."

As soon as she entered the room, she opened the envelope. It was a small note.

_"I only write you to wish you good luck. You are healed, you suffered because of terrible things. Keep that in mind. You are stronger than you thought, I always admired you for that._

_About the other.. I want you to know that I do not expect anything, only that you are free and get everything you are wanting._

_P. Turner. "_

"Will you wear this?"

She did not realize that Nurse Peters was in the room, looking at her old clothes.

"That's all I have."

The woman looked disgusted.

"I know, it's antiquated, but..." She shrugged.

"We'll make up for it with a nice hairstyle." The nurse winked.

Her last dinner in the sanitarium was barely tested. She was tired of that food, and wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible. She was not hungry either, she was too nervous to eat. Of course, she did not sleep either.

The first lights of the morning made her get up and start dressing. She prayed, thanking for her health. She did it looking at the wooden cross in her hands. Then she put it in the bag.

Nurse Peters entered saying that she heard noises in the room, unable to believe that her favorite patient was already up when in those months she had only made excuses not to get out of bed. The nurse immediately went to work with her hair, creating a beautiful hairstyle but without extravagances.

"I'll leave you to finish doing your things." The woman left.

She looked at her watch. It was 8:30. She stared at her body in the mirror, remembering what she saw in the magazine the night before. She had not worried about her appearance for years and now it showed, she felt tormented by what she saw last night and what she saw at that moment. She was horrible, she looked so thin, old, with ugly clothes, and this hairstyle that she hated now and that she wanted to tear out of her head.

Tears welled up. She had to leave, as soon as possible. She did not want him to see her like that.

* * *

He ran his fingers through his hair for the umpteenth time and cleared his throat. The clock read 9 o'clock, the day was about to release an important rain, and in the sanatorium room there was no one but him, waiting. He could not help staring at the door and nervous fingers eager for a cigarette. It was like waiting on a date, although she would not stay.

He felt so idiot about that, but he could not help but comb his hair and look through his clothes for the items that were less horrible. He wanted that when she left, she would see someone and not the worn shadow she saw in those months.

He glanced nervously at the wall clock: 9.05, 9.10.

At 9:20 he saw Nurse Peters pass by. He got up from the chair like a spring.

His hopes were crushed just by seeing the look of compassion that the woman gave him.

"She left at 8.30, almost running." She said before he could ask her. "I barely had time to give her a hug."

"But she told me she would leave at 9..." His voice came out sharp, full of despair.

"I know." The woman smiled at him with grief and he felt more idiot than before. "But she took a bus and left."

"A bus? But she can't do it!"

"That girl is very stubborn." The nurse smiled again with pity, he knew that she saw him as a disappointed pubert and he felt the shame invading him.

"Thanks." He managed to say, before returning to his room and falling on the bed.

What had happened?

* * *

Her hands thanked the warm porcelain of the cup that Julienne brought her. She was cold and wet all over her body, but her cheeks were still red from embarrassment. How she could believe that this would work out and that she was capable of doing it, was something that could not be explained. Wanting to give her life a drastic change only showed that she was crazy for thinking it, and a mad for carrying it out.

She did not look up when the nun spoke to her, she did not have the courage to do so.

"You know I can ask for clothes from Trixie, or from Cynthia." The nun repeated.

She shook her head. It would be the humiliation that she lacked.

She sneezed, and realized that was the humiliation she lacked, getting sick again for being so stupid to run away on the day of her medical discharge in the rain, take the wrong bus, and then walk who knows how much to get to another bus who left her in Poplar. On the streets she walked, she saw many well-known people who looked at her, surprised to see a woman soaking and panting with suitcases in her hands. Luckily, they did not recognize her.

She wiped her eyes with the hands, already warm. She looked at the cup, feeling unable to drink the hot chocolate that was kindly offered to her. She was hungry, but she knew that her stomach, full of nerves, could not tolerate that. At last she gathered the courage to raise her eyes and look forward.

"Tell me where I sign."

It was easy not to do this. Simply say that she was wrong and have her old bed back, her woolen habit, her home.

"Here."

A rebellious part of her was not yet wet and dull. She began her new life with a wrong foot, but if she had learned something in her now old life, it is because of some obstacles she should not abandon everything.

So she should continue.

When she finally signed and removed the ring, she was more than certain.

* * *

He racked his brains trying to figure out what went wrong. Maybe the last note, or what he said the night before...He could not find an explanation. She was gone, and even though while they were in the sanitarium, they rarely saw each other, he knew she was there. Now he felt more alone than ever.

To make matters worse, Sanders returned. After a couple of days of torture enduring his opinions on his x-rays and his work replacing him, he finally said he would leave in a week.

It was like knowing that he would come out of prison. He knew that when he returned there would be accumulated work, that surely the locum who replaced him had not been responsible enough, and a mountain of outdated papers and angry patients were waiting for him. But he would see Tim, go home, eat chips with him and, he swore, he would take time to take the boy to fish, travel by train, fly kites, or whatever his little one wanted to do.

With the good news, he tried not to think about her anymore, but he was not successful. She had vanished, and he could not write to her because he did not know where she was. She would not be in Nonnatus anymore, would she? Maybe she regretted it, maybe when he came back he would see her in her habit. Or maybe she would be dressed like Trixie, on the arm of a handsome man. Or maybe she would not even be in Poplar. They could tell her that she had returned to Scotland, or that she lived in a distant country. All possibilities distanced her, but why? Why if she knew that he loved her, and he was sure that she loved him, why did she leave like that?

She could have found her reasons, of course. They were no longer a couple of teenagers who believe that love is everything. Love would not erase that he was old and traumatized, had a job that did not give him respite, he had no money but a mischievous son and a mother-in-law who was the mother of his dead wife...If she was free, at last, she had a whole universe to choose from, there were no reasons to stay with him.

He tried to convince himself with that just so there was some peace in his head, but it was inevitable to seek explanations why she left half an hour before 9.

There was only a week left, and a week would be enough to drive him crazy until he could go out and look for her as a maniac.

But the days passed quickly.

When he signed the discharge papers and took his suitcase, he could not believe that he had survived. He took a deep breath, it would be the last time he would in a long time. Poplar's smog was waiting for him until he could arrange a field trip with Tim, or why not, a small vacation near the sea.

He walked a few steps towards his car. The poor thing had been kept under a slightly improvised roof, in a plot that served as a parking lot for the local employees. In all the time of his internment he did not approach it, so he doubted it would work as soon as he turned the key. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone approaching the entrance to the sanatorium, but he went to his car, looking for the keys in his coat and also a longed for cigarette.

When he found one and put it in his mouth, he just raised his eyes. Walking towards him, there was an apparition that ceased to be when it came closer and greeted him.

"Hello."

He could hardly recognize her, but that voice, those eyes, and that smile were all of her. She was a few steps away from him, with clothes he did not pay attention to because he only saw that she was cold. She only wore a gray wool jacket from which she pulled her sleeves to cover herself more. That did not protect her from the persistent drizzle that was falling.

He immediately approached her, taking off his coat to cover her. Before, he put his hand on her forehead, and she seemed relieved to feel his touch. He wrapped her, adjusting the coat to her fine neck.

"I didn't think the day would be like that." She explained shyly, looking down at her dress and her thin jacket. Then she raised her eyes and he felt his world stop. There was no more shyness, but determination.

"I thought I would not see you anymore." He managed to say.

"I didn't want to leave as I left but...I don't know what happened to me. " She smiled with shame. "I guess I didn't want you to see me, I didn't ...I didn't feel good with me. With what I am and how I am."

She shrugged, looking at the ground. He supposed he could touch her now, so he took her face in his hands so she could look at him. Her skin was cold and her eyes shining with tears that pretended to come out. He could not believe that she thought that way about herself, when she was the perfect representation of beauty.

"You are the most beautiful woman in the world, and the one I love the most." He ran his fingers through the loose, blond hair she wore.

At last he had told her.

* * *

She spent days regretting what she did, but it was done. Her doubts were everywhere, but at the same time she felt a certainty that it was responsible for calling Nurse Peters every day so that the woman, now her accomplice, would pass on a complete part of his state of health. She felt so guilty when she heard that he hardly ate, that he seemed more worried than before.

She was about to go see him when she knew that he would come out with his discharge. Uncertainty curled in her stomach as she traveled there, shivering with cold. He would have every reason to be offended and disappointed, he could put her aside and never talk to her again.

But here he was, covering her with his coat, worrying about her, being happy seeing her, taking away all the doubts she could ever have about her life, about him, about herself. Telling that he loved her.

"I know you so little but I couldn't be more certain." She said after a deep sigh. This time it was not her mouth or her mind that spoke, but her heart.

"I am completely certain. And I don't even know your name."

She smiled, that was funny. She knew his, but she would wait for him to say it.

"Shelagh."

"Patrick."

"There. We've made a start."

She reached out to touch his forehead as he had done with her. She saw him smile, relieved too. There were no signs of fever, only the softness of his hair.

Then, swallowing, she looked at him trying to be a joker, that had always worked.

"I think now comes the part where you kiss me and all that."

A silly giggle escaped her, but he did not laugh, just smiled tenderly, stroking her cheeks. He moved closer, and kissed her almost with fear. She reached out to touch him more, resting her hands on his chest. The kiss ended quickly, but she had never felt so happy.

Then she hugged him tightly, trying to listen to his breathing, making sure he was healed, that they both were and that they were together.

* * *

He could not count the times she broke his heart and the times she made him happy, but that could not matter less. If he ever believed that he could come back to life without her, he was very wrong. He could never live without her sweet smile that now had a name, a name he could never have guessed but now knew. And how beautiful it was, and how beautiful it was to call her by that name.

He was not surprised by her request disguised as a joke. In her face he saw a new woman, someone who came to a different life, a brave person. How would she be afraid to ask him for a kiss? And more when she surely knew that he was dying to give it to her.

He took her as if she were a little bird, with so much fear of hurting her, of frightening her, or that she really was not there and was only the product of his crazy imagination, but she surprised him with a strong and real hug, full of her softness and her aroma. She was so small in his arms, that he could feel her protector if it were not for he knew that who was protecting him here was her.

* * *

She felt tiny with his arms around her, but that did not scare her. On the contrary, it was like finally arriving home. She wanted to cry, but she was afraid that he would think he had done something wrong, when ever, even when she wanted to hate him, he had done something wrong.

"You came with someone?" He asked, parting a little.

"No, I came alone by bus."

"Again on a bus? You don't take care of yourself!" His doctor's voice caused her laughter and tenderness.

"Now you're going to rebuke me like that every day, doctor?"

"All the times that are necessary for you to stay healthy, Shelagh...Wait, what is your last name?"

She laughed.

"It's Mannion. Take your coat, you must also take care of yourself."

"No, no." He put his hands on her shoulders, preventing her from taking it off. They were big and warm, she looked at them for a moment and looked at him, feeling excited. "We'll be back in my car, and I can turn on the heat. Of course, if the car turns on. Oh, this is for you."

She looked at what he had in his fingers.

"I told you not to cut the rose."

"I didn't cut it."

She raised an eyebrow, watching him make a mischievous smile that she never saw in him before.

"If you will allow me..." He ran his hand through her loose hair and showed it to her: another identical and white rose.

"What…? Are you also a magician?"

"There are many things you do not know about me, Miss Mannion."

She saw him smile smugly and she could not help an incredulous laugh. While she imagined thousands of things that would happen when she saw him, none of this was in her plans. She felt surprised, and also light, free, happy. The nerves had disappeared, the worries too.

He opened the door of his car, inviting her to enter. The last time he did it, the trip was tense and sad, full of too many things to say. Now they were in the same place, they were the same people, and yet everything was completely different. From this moment on, their lives would change.

He entered laughing and looked at her for a moment before lighting the car. As expected, it did not work. Neither in the second, nor in the third attempt. She wanted to laugh, but he looked worried, muttering that he did not want to risk both of them on a bus ride full of germs. She smiled knowing that when he was nervous his medical side came out with more force to the surface, giving explanations and concepts.

"We will not die for that." She whispered, taking his hand. He left the key and looked at her, first in frustration, then with a little smile.

"I know, I just want to take care of you."

"You already do it." She wanted to kiss him, but she still could not find the courage to take the initiative. So she sighed and squeezed his hand. "Try again, if it fails, we'll go by bus."

"And you promise me that when we get there you'll get warm and have hot tea?"

"I promise." She rolled her eyes, laughing. He turned the key and the glorious sound of the engine was heard.

"Yes!" They exclaimed in unison.

When they left the sanitarium and took the road, the rain had intensified. Everything was more green, more blue, more intense.

They did not say anything, she just took his warm hand with her cold hand, and smiled. They had spent a lot of time missing each other, even in the moments they spent together they missed each other.

Now they had spoken little but said what was necessary. They knew that they would be together without further prohibitions, healed of the body and healed of the soul.

Together, in sickness and in health. Forever.

_The End_


End file.
